


Valentine, Redefined

by TheArtOfBlossoming



Series: Vincent, Redefined [7]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout 76
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Detective Noir, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24838270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArtOfBlossoming/pseuds/TheArtOfBlossoming
Summary: A pre-war Nick Valentine is recovering after the murder of his fianceé and about to get back to work. He crosses the path of a young lad, born into the wrong family and in need of protection.The events take place eleven days before the bombs fall.This story is a narrative link between my Fallout 76 and Fallout 4 gameplay, which from here, runs through the Valentine, Redefined and Hangovers series. At the time of publishing, Hangovers Parts 2 & 3 are being penned, making for a story arc of quite epic proportions.Put some 50's jazz on, sit back and enjoy...
Relationships: Jennifer Lands/Nick Valentine, Nick Valentine/Original Character(s)
Series: Vincent, Redefined [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/566194
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	Valentine, Redefined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Fallout Fandom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=The+Fallout+Fandom).



> To see a photo-montage the author created that suggests what pre-war Valentine looked like, visit this Tumblr post:
> 
> https://theartofblossoming.tumblr.com/post/621529818899562496/valentine-redefined

ELEVEN…

Wednesday morning rolled around. The early morning fog crept in amongst the alleys of Boston like drunkards at three a.m., the time I’d been awake since. I checked my wristwatch: five to six. May as well get up.

I habitually reached down, to where my Jenny would have been. Why did it still catch me by surprise that her warm curves no longer greeted my caress? Every damn time. I could still hear the sleep-heavy velvet of her voice saying my name. Her perfume still lingered on the linen even though I must’ve made a dozen trips to the laundrette since….

Captain Widmark had signed me off for a good long furlough and made me an appointment at CIT for a brainscan. ‘Therapy,’ they said. 'We’ll pay your wages for weeks if you go,’ they’d said.

'You’re a good Detective, Nick,’ they’d said. Not good enough.

I pulled on beige suit trousers and felt in the pocket, retrieving a flip lighter. 'Smoke before breakfast, Nick? Why, it’ll spoil your food darling,’ she’d say. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing tasted of anything now, anyway. The glow of the cigarette tip cast foreboding shadows in the dim little apartment. The table lamp remained untouched.

The first rays of sunlight that had managed to defeat the fog forced their way into the tiny bathroom window. I caught sight of my face in the mirror. A dark beard had begun to claim my face, making my sallow skin all the paler. 'You have beautiful skin, dear, no-one would guess that you’re approaching fifty. We must have a dinner party for your birthday, Nicky darling. What do you say? Let’s invite the Shaws and the O'Connor’s, shall we? Oh and dear old Ernie, of course.’

'Of course. It wouldn’t be a party without Ern.’

Dammit, Valentine. You gotta stop talking to yourself.

A half-eaten bagel sat abandoned in the kitchenette, the ashtray almost overflowing, the stub of the last cigarette floating in two inches of cold coffee.

At least I shaved. Armed only with hat, trenchcoat and loose tie, I walked all the way to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. A real-live receptionist signed me in but a Miss Nanny led me through the building, down to the basement labs. Whitecoats, bustlin’ everywhere, it gave me the creeps. Still, doctor’s orders. Captain’s orders, too.

The clinic was bright, too bright for these amber eyes that had been accustomed to candlelight and dim bars for, heck, however many days. Hat, coat, tie and shirt were confiscated, leaving muggins here in pants and vest. The couch I was told to lay on was colder than a mortuary slab, only more padded. The tubular tunnel they fed me into, noisy and confined and brighter still. My head was clamped in place. Other, nastier people could have used this device to make dead birds sing but all the docs wanted me to do was shut up, stay still and stare at the screen above me.

[Please Stand By…]

What was this, commercial time? A new episode of Jangles the Moon Monkey? No. The light that came next was searing. Something stabbed me in the back of the neck and I couldn’t move, not even to close my eyes. The noises grew louder, chugging an’ clanging, using my skull for a bell. I swear I spasmed in there, maybe stopped breathing for a few seconds.

Then suddenly, the noise was lounge music; the light, pictures of smiling families in lines going into a vault. Sugarbombs commercials. Slocum’s Joe jingles and then… [Thankyou for your co-operation].

The doc spoke to me briefly, no shrink, just a technician with a tick-box list on his clipboard.

They didn’t mention Jenny once. Damn, my head’s killing me.

TEN…

Rain pounded on the windows, the wind whipping round to lend it extra force. The hammering noise woke Valentine from an unusually long sleep. He rolled over to peer at his alarm clock which read:

[ Thu 10.44am ].

My head was thumping in time with the wet branch against the pane. I hadn’t slept this long since I was a beanpole of a teen. Coffee didn’t hit the spot and my stomach balked at the thought of food.

I went over to the bookcase and pulled out a copy of War and Peace. An untouched bottle of Uisce Beatha sat waiting expectantly at the back of the bookshelf. Now, I’m not usually one to drink to excess, you hear, but on that particular day I had nothing holding me back. No cases to focus on, no-one to distract me and quite frankly, no good reason to take care of myself.

So, I put on some records. ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’, 'Fly Me To The Moon’ and some instrumentals. Must have got through a whole pack o’ Grey Tortoise. My appetite went the way of the dodo so after a while, I konked out.

I came to hearing banging again. At first I thought it was just my head but then a voice said my name, insistently, the concern in it clearly pitched. He said my name again and it clicked: it was Ern, the first guy to shake my hand when I’d moved up from Chicago and my drinkin’ buddy ever since. I managed to stagger to the door and open it to let him in.

Ernest knows how to pick a guy up offa the floor. Before I knew it, fried eggs, a maple bacon donut and a strong cup of joe sat before me. Pretty soon I was feeling human again and the words I’d held in just came pourin’ on out. Bless ya, Ern.

NINE…

It just didn’t feel right being at home on a Friday. I shoulda been in the office. The phantom of yesterday’s hangover still hovered about. Shoo, ghost. Just cigarettes today, thanks…and three square meals.

Ern checked in around mid-day. He was relieved to hear me back to my old self and between him an’ the Captain, I was given the go-ahead to return to work now I’d had my so-called therapy.

Well, it’d had one effect. I wasn’t hearing Jenny’s voice all the time. Not sure if that was really a benefit, though…

At least the rain had cleared out. Weak sunlight shone through the drapes. It lit up the telephone on the side table which in turn lit up the notion to ‘phone my sister in Chicago. We weren’t exactly ever close, she was so much younger than me. Still, I had a nagging feeling that I ought to give her a bell.

The eggshell blue telephone was warm to the touch. So, the sun wasn’t that weak after all. Maybe, neither was I.

ring ring, ring ring, ring…

“Hello, Chicago 4365?”

“Victoria? It’s Nick.”

“Nicky? Oh my god, Nicky. I'm… I’m so sorry we couldn’t come to the funeral. I meant to call you.”

“I didn’t expect you to come all this way, kiddo.”

“I would’ve, Nicky, only…”

“How’s Frank? Heard from him recently?”

“ *sniff*… (Her voice went quiet, distant). That’s just it, Nicky. He isn’t at Anchorage anymore. He… *sobs*”

“Vicky? Vicky, c'mon, what happened? You can tell your big brother. Take a deep breath, that’s it.”

“Oh Nicky. He’s at the military hospital here in Chicago. He…he got hit, Nicky. Tore his power armor to shreds. He… he’s lost an arm and they don’t know if he’ll see again…”

This news hit me like a cold wave but I couldn’t really connect to the feelings it brought up. Any other time I woulda been in my Corvega Blitz and speeding to her side. This time, I just didn’t have it in me to be there for her. Oh, Victoria was a social butterfly and I knew she wasn’t alone in this. That thought did nothing to suppress the guilt that rose like bile, however.

“Uh…hey, listen bean, I just had that scan thing an’ it’s done a number on me. I really shouldn’t drive that far…”

“Oh, no no no, Nicky, I couldn’t ask you to. I’m, I’m alright. Kitty and Tim are letting me stay over, whilst Frank recouperates. Their house is closer to the hospital, you see.”

“…”

“Nicky? I really am sorry about Jenny. She was wonderful.”

“Yeah, I know kiddo. Say, you take care o’ Frank, tell him I’ll be by as soon as I can, once he’s home. Thank him for his service.”

“Of course. 'Bye, Nicky.”

“Goodbye, Victoria. Love you, kiddo.”

“I love you too, big brother.”

EIGHT…

The Saturday market in South Boston was packed. Burly , deep-voiced fishmongers vied with high-pitched florists and newsboys, with the occassional Mr. Handy laden with baskets, navigating the stalls on its errands for mister and missus something or other.

I stopped at the paper stand, as usual. Whilst reading the headlines for October 16th, 2077 I overheard a familiar name..

“….Winter. I’m gettin’ out while I can. Don’t wanna be stuck bein’ one of his floozies whilst he gets stuck into livin’ the high life on his get outta jail free ticket.”

As every detective worth his salt would do, I risked a peek between the brim of my fedora and the top of the daily rag. The girl at the phonebooth couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Blonde, unkempt wavy hair stood out in a halo around her head. Too much makeup for this time in the morning and a dress better suited to the summer months than late autumn. I strained to hear past the bustle but a little lip-reading helped me out.

“Rumour is he’s makin’ his staff work on this special project, somewhere. It ain’t no cakewalk and there’s no gettin’ out of it if you start. Look, I’ll see you at Prost Bar at, say, seven-thirty? Cool. Bye.”

I got a good look as she turned, before the crowd swept her away. Looked like I’d be goin’ to Boston Common that evening. I couldn’t go alone though. I used the same booth to give Ernie a call.

After I’d called Ern to meet me for drinks at Prost later, the day passed uneventfully. I ate a TV dinner whilst watching some terrible television show called the Silver Shroud. I’d heard it on the radio from time to time, much better over the airwaves I thought.

The afternoon was spent with my shirtsleeves rolled up, ironing…well…shirtsleeves. Not my finest skill, Jenny used to press my suits like a professional, one of those little things she didn’t have to do for me but always did.

The wind blew a score of leaves off the tree outside my window. ‘That’s what I have to do, too,’ I thought to myself. Let go. Let these little memories just fly away with with the breeze.

Housework done and evening falling like an ominous feeling, I put on the godawful sports jacket that poor ol’ Frank had given me and went to meet Ernie at the bar. The kid was there, dolled up same as earlier. She met some lanky beanpole who might’ve been a boyfriend. He called her 'Molly’. All I got was that she was scootin’ off to friends in West Virginia.

“Valentine, you hear for business or pleasure? You ain’t even officially clockin’ in yet. I see that look!”

I couldn’t put much past Ernest. He was one exam score short of making Detective himself. I mentally filed the information away to look up both kids later and ordered two house specials.

“The booze, Ern, the booze. Cheers!”

SEVEN…

I was woken by the peal of bells all across the city. The last place I wanted to be was sat on a hard wooden bench in a cold, stone hall, trying to connect with an overarching something I had no evidence of. I’d been brought up religious but this city has ways of stripping all the magic and wonder outta life. If there was a divine spirit, it would be a private conversation between me an’ Him, anywhere I needed it to be.

Like Jenny’s voice, though, I heard nothing. I made breakfast (Sugarbombs, shame on me) and drained my coffee mug. Speakin’ of mugs, mine needed a shave again. I ran my morning ablutions on automatic.

Dressed in my dark grey suit - I never wanted to wear the black one ever again - I slid into my lemon yellow Corvega Blitz and headed to the green and pleasant outskirts; to the cemetary.

The journey was becoming second nature. Every Sunday since the funeral two months ago I’d been back to change the flowers, to just talk to her. My fiancée. My Jenny.

We met at the Chicago Theatre. My pal Jack and his wife Ena had a spare ticket and invited me along to a show. The usher that showed us to our seats and served various confections during the interval had a stunning smile. I found myself going to the theatre the following week and the one after that. One week there was a different usher but that smile shone at me from a bit-part on the stage. I started going twice a week after that, until eventually I worked up the nerve to ask her if she’d like a drink.

Jenny was a star. She worked her way up from part-time usher slash part-time background actress to full time actress and lead understudy in no time. She had a voice like an angel and moves that enchanted.

She was glamourous and then some but no selfish starlet. No, she was down to earth, appreciated every rung up the ladder she achieved and her tastes were modest, too. Good job, it took me months to save for that tiny diamond engagement ring on my detective’s salary.

Heh, she had this adorable way of doing my tie up for me from behind; of peeling her apples in one long strip; of looking at me sideways with a magnetic half-smile.

Oh, Jenny. I miss you, darling.

SIX…

I drew up outside the Bureau of Alcohol, Drugs, Tobacco, Firearms and Lasers; bit of a mouthful, I know, we just call it ‘Bad T.F.L’. I parked the Corvega in its usual spot, got out and bought a newspaper from the machines outside and lit up a cigarette whilst reading the front page. A pretty typical Monday morning, just what I needed.

I opened the door only to get a chorus of “Welcome back, Valentine!” Thankfully no-one was blowing party horns or popping streamers in my face. That would have been…inapproprite. Still, Jonathan came right up, clapped me on the shoulder and handed me a Slocum’s Joe gift basket. Nothing special, just a few pastries I liked, a coffee, a half-dozen packs of smokes and a nice tie. Yeah, that last would have been Mavis, the receptionist’s doing. Sweet gal.

The days workload was deliberately dull. A stolen truckload of loaded cigarette machines, a forged laser license and an alcohol-based homicide that any rookie gumshoe could have cracked.

The afternoon was bright but cold. The office was mostly empty due to staff workin’ across the city. I had plenty o’ time and no peepers over my shoulder, so I looked into this Molly kid.

Didn’t take long. A few counts of soliciting, petty theft, one drunk and disorderly…in some of the reports a name had been redacted. I guessed it was Eddie Winter, judging by the pickup locations. Also, a relative listed at an address in West Virginia. Nothin’ I could take action on but maybe useful in the future, when Eddie inevitably crapped all over the justice system again.

The 'phone rang. Mavis must have been powdering her nose, so I picked up.

“Detective Valentine.”

“Detective, Sergeant Russell here over at Cambridge Police Station. We…ahh..we got a little present for ya. Handle with care, needs stowin’ away safe 'fore it…ah… goes off.”

What the Sergeant was trying to say covertly was that they had an underage eye witness in need of protection. I grabbed my hat and headed over there.

FIVE…

I’d gone over to Cambridge Police Station the previous late afternoon to meet eyewitness. The cops were strained; seemed like Eddie’s ratting had started fillin’ up the cells faster than a Red Rocket fuels a Fusion Flea.

I guessed the kid couldn’t have been much over ten. He looked white, shook to his core, making his dark auburn mop a stark contrast.

I asked the Sergeant if they’d gotten a name out of him and the details about what he’d seen whilst a pretty young ash-blonde assistant tried to get him to take a bite of Salisbury Steak and some fries. The kid shied away from her as if she’d bite his head off. I mentally filed this under ‘signs of abuse’.

The Serg. mentioned a name that made my ears prick up: Cidro 'The Cigar’ Giancola, a gang boss from New York that had some ties to Winter, not enough to go after him directly but a serious concern nonetheless. Turned out, the kid, Riqui, was his grandson. He’d been driving the getaway car, blocks duct taped to the pedals for his little legs to reach. The kid had needed to whizz, gone down an alley and spotted his family in the building’s basement doing…unspeakable things. So he ran, good kid went straight to the local station and ratted out the mobsters.

So the Cambridge lot were full to the brim and social services had no boarding available. It wasn’t exactly by the books but the Sergeant asked me to keep an eye on the squirt overnight. I said sure, as long as I could take his case on. The Captain might not approve but technically, it was unrelated to Winter. Little Riqui needed putting in witness protection because sure as hell, his Grandpappy wouldn’t care that he was a kid when he came looking for retribution. 'The Cigar’ was infamously ruthless. The boy’s father had died in New York, his mother was a no-good tramp with a file full o’ misdemeanors. There’d be a ton of paperwork and lawyer’s hurdles to get through in order to get the kid legally separated from his criminal family.

Riqui was quiet all the way back to the office. I filed the paperwork and made a few calls. All the usual safehouses were full to the brim, so I got creative. I needed somewhere where a child could be fostered and hidden for a few years. I gave Vault-Tec a call. They heard me out and asked me to call back tomorrow. Looked like I was working from home.

We left the office and stopped by my favourite diner, a hidden little scrap of a place, it did the best spuckies. His appetite seemed to be returning 'cause he managed a whole one plus a Nuka Cola float. It wasn’t until we got back to the apartment that he said more than two words to me.

I laid a blanket an’ pillow on the couch for him and sat down, patting the seat the other end.

“ ’m I in trouble, mister gumshoe?”

“It’s Detective Valentine to you, Riqui G.…. though I might let you call me Nick if you’re on your best behaviour…and no, it isn’t you that’s in trouble, kiddo.”

He went slightly pale again, eyes downcast to the floor.

Nick put his hand gently under the boy’s chin to lift it. “We’re not gonna think about that anymore. What do you love doing?”

“Messin’ with cars. Um… reading the Unstoppables. Oh, mister, do you watch the Silver Shroud? He’s the ginchiest, man!”

“Ginchiest?” Nick’s forehead creased into a well-worn frown.

“Yeah, you know, the most, real cool, like.”

“He sure is…entertaining. I think the radio show is on in a half hour.”

“Oh but he’s on teevee right now! You do got a set, dont'cha?”

Valentine let out a surreptitious sigh and put the awful television show on. Before long, the kid was fast asleep.

Tuesday morning dawned, bright and hopeful. Little Riqui had not slept well during the night, haunted by what he’d seen through that basement window. We had a long man to man talk about why his family were the way they were, how they’d been keeping him in the dark about what they really did; he told me he was eleven now and that when he’d turned ten, he was taught how to drive (“cool!”) and shoot (“friggin’ scary, mister and hard, too!”). I told him straight that he was going to have to live with new parents because his mom and his Grandpappy were real bad people. He seemed relieved, quite frankly.

Around nine thirty, I dished the kid up some Sugarbombs. He had seconds. I called Vault-Tec head office to see if they had any suitable, willing couples able to foster the lad. Oddly, they jumped at the opportunity of a 'junior recruit’ but said that not even Vault 111 up north had any suitable spaces. I’d have to enquire out of state.

That meant more paperwork in the aftermath but I was following a hunch. Maybe if West Virginia had a match then I could fix two problems with one trip. It took three hours, seven callbacks and I swear I went half-deaf from waiting muzak an’ robot receptionist static but eventually I got through.

Vault Seventy Six had not one but two prospective couples. Only thing was, they were closing that big rolling door in just a few days time. They wouldn’t give an exact date as to when but suggested arriving before the weekend. They also made it abundantly clear that the Vault had no adult spaces left. Not that I’d ever want to be sealed up underground…

FOUR…

Riqui had slept better so when Wednesday morning dawned in all its autumnal glory, I’d already packed and got breakfast on the table. He poked a drowsy head up from behind the couch and I reached over to muss his hair. He smiled. I don’t think I’d seen him smile before. It made me wonder what our kid would’ve been like, Jenny and I. I’d pried it out of her lawyer friend Nora, after the funeral. I regret that conversation. Usually my hunches lead me to good information, so when I approached Nora Hudson to thank her for coming and enquire how her husband was adjusting to civilian life, I knew she was holding something back. I’m not proud of taking advantage of her emotional state and I know I pushed too hard. She blurted it out, then left.

Jenny had been expecting.

* * *

The kid dressed and devoured the rest of the Sugarbombs. He trailed along with me but perked up when he saw my automobile again and started firin’ questions at me about what was under the hood, why’d I choose lemon (I didn’t), how far could it go on a tank. Kid was a real hotrod.

The journey was twelve, long hours. Must admit I humored the squirt and let the radio squawk out rock ‘n’ roll for hours when I’d rather’ve had light jazz .We stopped half-way at a Drumlin Diner, grabbed a slice of pizza, cup o’ Joe for me an’ a Nuka Cherry for little Riqui, even though I knew the sugar rush would be rough. Maybe he’d have a nap, after.

“Listen, kiddo, when we get there, the boss lady says you gotta take this test. She called it a K.I.D. test, some junior version of what every Vault Dweller takes at sixteen, this Generalised Occupational Aptitude test.”

“ Haha…goat!” the kid had pizza sauce down his chin and a sparkle back in his eyes. “So wha’ does K.I.D. stand for, mister?”

“First of all, drop the 'mister’, okay kiddo? You can call me Nick when it’s just us. 'Detective Valentine’ in company, you got that?” I paused, leaned forward conspiratorally and added, “Don’t give away my secret identity,” and winked. That brought out a grin, then a serious, tomato-stained expression and a nod of agreement. A sacred pizza-pact.

I answered his question: “K.I.D. stands for Knowledge, Independence and Diagnostics.”

“Umm…but whaddoes it _mean_?

"They just wanna know what you’re good at, Ricky.”

“It’s Rrrrriqui, mist… er… Nick. You gotta roll the R, Spanish-like.”

“Yeah, well, see, you might need a secret identity too, kid.”

“It’s almost the same, though!”

“Not when you type it, it ain’t. They’d never suspect it was you. Let’s call you…Ricky Gee. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds cool. It’s real close to my real name, though…”

“So you’re never gonna forget it. Eat up, we gotta get going.”

The afternoon miles flew by. The kid fell asleep so I turned on the Jazz. It was one of my favorites, live in the studio: Duke Silver. That man knew his way around a saxophone.

By around six in the evening, the sun was setting behind impressive mountains. We pulled into the Green Country Lodge just north of Flatwoods. I looked at my scribbled notes: room 2a had been reserved for us, personal courtesy of a Miss A. Sutton, that’d be the Overseer herself.

She met us in the visitor’s lounge, smiled and shook the sleepy boy’s hand. We agreed to meet at an office in Flatwoods for the kid to take the entrance test in the morning. Was this what parenthood felt, like, hoping the kid passed his stupid test for a chance at a better future? Was I doing the right thing? Giancola would never get his stinking hands on this boy ever again, even if little Ricky wasn’t up to Vault-Tec’s standards. Well, here’s lookin’ at you, kid.

THREE…

The Thursday menu at the Green County Lodge seemed to be anything as long as you wanted it fried. The kid was more than happy with this and ate an adult portion. At least he’d gotten his appetite back. I settled for a strong cup of coffee and the apple in my pocket.

The weather seemed to have eased into being sunny and lightly breezy. I loved Fall. The warmth of the coloured leaves, the promise of long evenings by the fire with a book, fresh pumpkin pie and the holiday season closing in. I didn"t much care for Hallowe'en, no, I loved the winter holidays….except this year it wouldn’t be the same. I guess it would be a quiet one.

“Can I get a Nuka Cherry, mister Nick?” The kid pulled me from my thoughts by yanking on my shirt sleeve. I ran a hand through my hair, sighed and reminded him: “The nice Overseer lady said no Nukas before the test, kid. How’s about a glass of milk?”

He scowled but agreed. Before he’d finished the last of his cow-juice, the Overseer walked in.

“Good morning Detective; master G. We’re all ready for you if you’d like to follow me.”

I tipped my hat back onto my head, scooped my trenchcoat over one arm and tentatively held out my hand. The boy took it and squeezed, slightly. I looked down. His blue eyes reminded me of hers and yet again I wondered briefly what our child might have been like. I squeezed his hand back. “Ready, kid? You show ‘em what you’re made of.”

We walked a block to a small office building where the Overseer took Ricky into a clean, brightly lit room. “I’ll take it from here, Detective. You can wait here though we’ll be about three hours. I suggest the tavern or perhaps a stroll through the lovely countryside hereabouts. I know Flatwoods has little to offer but it was the best we could do, this close to admission and orientation.

Ricky looked at me, a little panicked now.

"Break a leg, kiddo.”

He clung to my side. I had no idea what to say to the squirt but luckily the Overseer approached, knelt down and gently persuaded him to let go. The two of them walked through a door into a room set up with tables and chairs in rows, a projector screen on the far wall and a desk. The lady closed the door with a parting comment:

“I’m sure he’ll do his best. Don’t worry.”

As if the kid were my own…well, legally until he was accepted - _if_ he was accepted - into the Vault program, he _was_ my responsibility. Before I knew what I’d said, a whispered “Good luck, son,” had left my lips.

In the next three hours I drank as many cups of coffee and chainsmoked almost a full pack o’ Greys. I didn’t fancy getting country road all over my brogues, so the woodland walk was restricted to seeing trees from sidewalks.

At the office, three and a half hours later, the door finally opened. Little Ricky Gee, now his official name, shuffled out looking tired. When he saw me sitting waiting for him, his face lit up. I couldn’t help but smile. The Overseer was beaming, too.

“Well, Detective Valentine, I am pleased to inform you that this young man passed not only his K.I.D. evaluation but also a slightly modified, for his age you understand, G.O.A.T. mock exam. Vault-Tec is delighted to welcome our newest member!”

I reached out to shake the boys hand but he flung himself at me again for a full-on embrace. I’m not really the hugging type but the kid had made me soft. I hugged him right back, a token of appreciation for the glimpse of fatherhood that he’d given me.

The Overseer had telephoned one of the couples who were prospective foster-parents. They arrived looking ready to jive, the guy with a slick pompador, leather jacket and tidy jeans; the woman with hair rolled up in a do-rag and bright red lipstick. They both had tattoos and I gave the Overseer a quizzical eyebrow. She relayed their rather impressive qualifications: the guy was an engineer and the doll was a botanist…or biologist…or both? Anyway, the kid took to them like a bird to the air. We signed off the paperwork and drove together up to the big old Vault door.

As I watched the boy step into the orifice, turn and wave with a smile on his face, I got the feeling of a case being closed…but also of a connection lingering. He’d be in there a good long while and I very much doubted that I’d ever see him again. Although…life works in mysterious ways, stranger things had happened.

“You’re one of the lucky ones, Ricky. Do good in there, sonny, I know you will.”

TWO…

I woke with a crick in my neck. I'd be glad to say goodbye to the mattress in 2a, Green County Lodge. I washed, shaved, dressed, shined my shoes, cleaned my pistol, drank my coffee and packed all on automatic pilot. Truth be told, I already missed the kid. 

At the front desk, Mrs. Green waved me over to say that the Vault-Tec lady had left a letter. I thanked her and headed to the tavern in search of an unhealthy breakfast. 

As I ate, I read, barely disturbed by the day to day noises of the little town of Flatwood. The Overseer thanked me for the newest addition to Vault 76 and assured me that he had settled in with the rockers we'd met, Jonny and Cindy Kelly and had started his therapy under one Doctor Hew. 

Enclosed were his test scores. The kid was pretty mediocre on most things but proved to have a very high Perception score. His Luck was also a high score, though I was mystified as to how such a thing could be measured and surprised to even find it included in an exam. Vault-Tec sure did love their acronyms but I already knew the kid was special. He'd be safe there and nurtured, too. Job well, done, Valentine, I told myself.

The cloud of depression that young Ricky had pushed back briefly began to return. I went back to the hotel room to fetch my valise and check for stray smalls. The only thing I found by the bed where Ricky had been sleeping was a little enamel brooch of a black cat with the pin broken off. It was the kid's. I smiled and tucked the lucky cat into my wallet, glad of a personal memento. 

Soft, Valentine, you're going soft.

Just then, the phone rang. Mrs. Green asked if I wanted to accept a call from a Mr. Wilson. I told her to put me straight through.

"Valentine speaking."

"Nicky! Man it's good to hear a familiar voice. I heard you were in Appalachia. Can we meet up for coffee and donuts?"

Curtis Wilson knew I wasn't a donut kind of guy, we'd worked together at BADTFL long enough to establish that and the fact that asking me if I wanted donuts was code for 'I need to talk, urgently'. 

"Sure, your timing sure is good, Wilson, I'm just about to check out." 

I could hear the man sigh in relief down the telephone. He'd been the lead agent on a case that bust a firearms smuggling ring wide open back in January.

"Since you'll be on the road anyway, meet me at the Red Rocket Mega-Stop, route sixty six," said the agent.

"Got it. They better do good donuts, Wilson. Be there 'round eleven."

"Seeya there, buddy."

* * *  
The traffic was fairly light for a weekday. I pulled my lemon-custard coloured Corvega Blitz into the huge parking lot. I wasn't about to refuel here, the prices were astronomical, probably to pay for all the shiny red Protectron bots marching about the place.

I entered the cafeteria and scanned the room for the familiar dark-skinned bald pate. Curtis Wilson was sat in a secluded corner, an unnecessary precaution as the place was almost empty. He waved me over and ordered two coffees…no donuts.

"Nicky! I'm glad you came. Good to see you buddy, how you holding up? Cap'n filled me in."

"Helps to focus on work. So whatcha got for me, Curt?"

Wilson brought out a large briefcase and opened it to reveal Abraxo sample products, whilst subtly sliding a large manilla envelope across the table. "That's as much as I can risk sharing right now. You're the only one I can trust, Valentine. The Free States situation I was sent to investigate has opened up just a whole can o' worms. I got a local sherriff working with me but…oh Nicky…corruption in the establishment runs deeper than we ever joked about. It really ain't funny no more."

"Best I squirrel this away then, eh?" I slid the envelope into a discreet inner pocket in my trenchcoat and picked up a paper. 

"Sam Blackwell Resigns!" read a headline. 

"That guy involved?" I guessed.

"Pivotal. But he…" Curtis lowered his voice, "he's the good guy in this. The Free Staters are really onto something. I'm really starting to question my position, Nicky. You know how they screwed you over with the Winter case."

I didn't dignify that with an answer, simply drank my godawful coffee.

"You'd better get out as soon as you can, my friend, I'm tellin' ya. Listen, read that, " Wilson gestured to my trenchcoat pocket with his chin, "then make your own mind up. For goodness' sake though Nicky, be careful."

I put down the coffee mug, straightened my tie and shook my friend's hand. "Keep your head down, Curt. If you have anything for me, use the old dead drop postal address near the baseball stadium."

"The one from the Giancola case? That one that fizzled?"

"Yeah. That'll work. Cidro 'The Cigar' Giancola's boys and himself got busted this week, thanks to a brave young man."

"Thanks, Nicky. It means alot that you'll help. Just… be real careful. The roots on this go deep…well…all the way to the top, I reckon." Curt passed me a phony Abraxo order form for show. I filled it in with crap and a bad joke.

"I get your mangled metaphor, Curt. May have a guy I can bring on board, too. Right. Gotta hit the road. Long trip home."

Curtis stood, looked at the form to keep up the front, laughed at the bad joke and shook my hand again as if we'd made a deal and then we parted, to any prying eyes, just two salesman on the road.

ONE…

I got home that Friday evening and took a long bath. The record player was massaging my eardrums with some of my favourite jazz; Tommy Dorsey sang "Sweet Sue, Just You" and dear old Ella Fitzgerald crooning 'Stairway to the Stars'.

Nick lifted a dripping hand to reach the whiskey on the small table next to him. He picked it up, paused, put it down again without taking a sip and curled over as the remaining tears that had been locked away for days spilled out in huge, unguarded sobs. 

He cried for the loss of Jenny, for his family that could have been. He cried for what the poor kid Ricky had been through; for the now seemingly insurmountable corruption that he had read about in Curtis Wilson's file. He cried for what future generations might have in store.

Eventually, the bath went cold and the tears dried up, leaving Nick Valentine feeling shrivelled; not hollow but empty of anything save his eternal, dogged determination to do good and make the world a better place, even if only for a very few. He would do his utmost to follow this lead, wherever it would take him, personal consequences be damned.

* * *  
Saturday morning dawned. I was up with the sun, shaved, dressed and breakfasted early so I could get into the office without getting caught in the weekend shopping trip jam.

I pulled into the parking lot, bought a paper from the machine and glanced at the headlines. A mix of optimism after the successful battle of Anchorage and false hope articles about things I understood deeper, now. It only made me more determined to dig up the truth.

The Chief was in. "Hey Nick, whaddya doin' here on a Saturday mornin'?"

"Catching up, Bernie. I did just go on a holiday outta state," I replied.

"Heh, well I guess we're all playin' catch-up right now. Since we got that lead, 'roaches are comin' outta the cracks everywhere!"

"You have no idea," I mumbled, as I lit up. 

"Say, did you get that kid somewhere safe?"

"And then some, Bernie. Any luck with finding Giancola yet?"

"I got one rat says he's fled outta Mass. Probably gone back to New York."

"Hmm….I doubt it. The guy _he_ left behind hasn't been caught yet, to the best of my knowledge." I sat down at my desk, booted up my terminal and flicked through my workload. Minor cases that could wait, the 'light duties' I'd been given to keep me away from chasing down anything to do with the bastard that had murdered my fianceé. I ignored both avenues of work, opened the envelope Wilson had slipped me and started typing in leads.

Around quarter to ten, I was on a roll. I'd found details about secret bunkers, dirt that ex-Senator Sam Blackwell had dug up and names of construction sub-contractors and mining operations that made one big damn spiderweb. 

Chief groaned and got up. "Just goin' the the john. Want me to grab a cup o' joe after?" 

"Sure, sure," I replied, my mind mostly busy making connections. I got up a moment later to grab an old file…"

Tic…tic…tic…

The clock on the wall was loud. I heard sudden wind outside, then a rush of heat as the earth shook and nuclear fire tore me free of my old life...the ticking of both the clock and my heart stopped at 9.47am.

* * *  
Postscript

Flashes of images. A young guy in a Vault suit playing guitar. Jenny in the far, far distance. Green skies and hideous creatures threatening my young friend. I find him, time and time again, fighting for his life. I get a few shots in and he's gone again. I see a muscular man, trapped in a pod, banging on the frosty glass with his fist.

Bright, sterile lights, Unfamiliar faces. I look at my hand and scream. The world goes black. Over and over again I wake up in terror, each time trying to escape my bonds. I wake up again, free of restraints. I see a hideous mannequin of a robot trying to grab at me. We fight. Everything goes black.

I wake up, look around me. The world has been torn to pieces, flaking, rusting, jagged pieces. I am no longer flesh, not even a strange and mysterious ghost but a hard, man-shaped thing made of metal, plastic and rubber. One hand is covered in some kind of silicon skin, the other naked to the steel bones. 

Who am I? 

A name comes when it is called for.  
Nick Valentine. What am I? What was I just doing? 

Silence. 

I climb out of the dumpster to see a young boy staring.

"Mister! It ain't safe out here. I.…I just snuck out to get my ball. It landed in there."

The boy points. I see a slightly deflated red rubber basket ball and hand it to him, my body moving to my command but feeling clunky and stiff. The hand with skin tells me about the texture of the ball, the one without only tells me where it is in space. 

"Come _on_ mister, 'fore the guards catch us outside the fence!"

The kid reminded me of someone, those blue eyes and dark hair. He tossed me some rags.

"Here, put these on quick! Can't walk in naked, mister! Oh, I'm Jim by the way. Say, what kinda robot are you anyhow?"

Something clicked into place in my head. A word that I'd heard in that bright, harsh room over and again but something held me back from saying it out loud. 'Synth'.

"Just call me Nick, kid. Nick Valentine."

**Author's Note:**

> It has been both a pleasure and a heartbreak to write Nick (and little Ricky)'s story. I can see quite clearly what the man used to look like in the flesh.
> 
> The little black enamel lucky cat is directly inspired by something my own dad keeps in his wallet. The music referenced can be found online. I love 50's music. My own Grandpop was in a big band, though that was before my time. I grew up listening to Glenn Miller and also John Denver, so 'Country Roads' in 76 struck a nostalgic chord.
> 
> I do hope you've loved this perspective on dear old Valentine as much as I've loved writing it.
> 
> 'Hey, chin up. I know the night just got darker, but it won't last forever.'


End file.
